There should be an ice cream truck for adults, that served all sorts of adult things, so that a cloud of shame never surrounded you as you stood in its shade, handing a dude some cold hard cash in exchange for some much needed contraband.

In the ears of some listeners, Trainor’s single lyrical reference to “skinny bitches,” for which she actually issues an apology in the very next line, is single-handedly setting the feminist movement back fifty years.

Guy sits next to you on the train, spreads his legs as far apart as you think could be humanly possible, and you’re suddenly squashed up against a glass panel or door with little room to breathe. And who said sorry? Probably you.